


The Reinvention of Amerlie Jonquille

by LaNaturalBreezeOf_Books



Series: Amerlie [1]
Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: 2019, Alex orbits, Alternatively: 10 times Miles is a human prompt for inspiration, And makes Alex fall in love with him, Baby Making References, Does that count as Romance, Dynamic fluff, Homage to Histoire de Melody Nelson, How I imagine albums being conceived, Inappropriate Guitar Handling, Incorrect French, M/M, Miles Kane as the Sun, Mixing Metaphors, Musical References, Normal people things, References to previous fic 'Put a Tune On Baby', Romance, Songwriting, Standalone Summary, dramatic boys, like a lot, or maybe not, relationship progression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29175762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaNaturalBreezeOf_Books/pseuds/LaNaturalBreezeOf_Books
Summary: He’s in a dry rut.I’m a bee and it’s Winter.Hasn’t written in a while, not really.You’re my pollinator.‘Why?’ He writes, circling hard over the word.Inspiration comes in the form of one Miles Kane, because of course it does.The rest is history.Let me lick you up.‘Too strong?’ is crossed out, and then underlined in fresh pen ink.Soak me in your effervescence, fucking star dust exploding in my face-Alex folds the slip of paper, neatly closing the moleskin shut.Yeah, he’s fucked.
Relationships: Miles Kane/Alex Turner
Series: Amerlie [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142015
Comments: 20
Kudos: 31





	The Reinvention of Amerlie Jonquille

**Author's Note:**

> A woman rushes into the hospital. “Nurse!” she cries, “I’m having a baby!” There’s a commotion, a whirl of activity to take her into delivery. Her husband then walks in, completely calm. He says to the doctors, “Don’t pay her no mind, we only decided yesterday.”

~

_You appeal to me, through the garden of these gifts._

**1: Excavator  
  
**

First it happens out of nowhere.

Alex is just craving a nice, hot cuppa and a place to get some shut eye. Jamie’s strumming away with Ethan, L.A. Matt’s temp, on the drums. They’re jamming, and it sounds good, really it does. It’s just that Alex’s been paying quite close attention to the time, and he’s a slave as anyone is to the pull of gravity that’s gradually coaxing his eyes closed. Thankfully, one of the perks of wearing sunglasses indoors is that the guys can’t see how hard he’d been resisting the lull of sleep.

So far, the only motivating reason to not just give in to it was the instinctual -bone deep-repulsion of becoming _that guy._ That guy who takes his sleeps early, pops his vitamins in the morning and complains that they don’t make ‘em like that anymore. That dull, _middle-aged_ guy.

It’s solely for that reason that he sees, from his cushion-aided sprawl on the studio floor, the second Miles Kane walks into the room.

Not the live room, where they currently are (and now will have been for three hours straight) but the mixing room, where Alex watches him greet their studio hand Mark with a hug. Alex closes his eyes properly then; Miles knows Mark, and they’ll chat for a bit because Mark just had his third child the other week and it’s a surety that he’ll stop Miles for a solid five, banging on about the sprog just as he did to the rest of them earlier that evening.

Sure enough, Jamie and Ethan go another round of the song before Miles enters the playing area. Alex listens to them greet each other. Backslaps, _how ya doin_ ’s, _chill man_ ’s, _nah he’s awake_ , the usual chat. Alex wonders if he grew his hair out again, because it’s been a longer period than usual since he’s seen that turtle head, and he wonders.

“Got you a pressie, Al.”

It’s shameful, really, the speed at which his eyes fly open. Miles is smiling down at him, all shaved head glory, and he looks _good._ Alex lingers on the figure he cuts and appreciates, up until he cocks his hip and says, smartly, “Need help getting up, old man?”

Alex gives him the finger, which he laughs at, and heaves himself up. It’s probably wise that he doesn’t respond to the jibe with something to the contrary because as he straightens up his back cracks, audibly, and it’s depressing in the iron-strong irony of the memory of youth. Bones don’t remember youth, unfortunately.

When he’s on two feet he raises his arms and not a second later he gets wrapped up by longer ones that squeeze around his back, not to mention the last of his breath. He uses the very last to wheeze out “Milesfuckingkane.”

He gets a rough kiss to the cheek as they part, and there’s not much time to dwell on the slight disappointment at that because the crinkling of a carrier bag has him reaching for it without a second thought.

“What’sit then? Oh, you didn’t.”

Miles is smirking, the fucker, but he should be. Because anyone who comes to the studio with bounty from the local Kingfisher chippy is automatically lifted to God status.

“It should still be hot,” he says, which are the magic words that Alex-god honestly-salivates at. He sees Jamie smiling behind them, Ethan sniffing the air as he twirls a drumstick in his fingers, and immediately whips off his sunglasses to point at them.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Jamie, still smiling, holds up his own carrier bag, the logo of the Kingfisher clear as day. “Thanks again mate,” he says to Miles, who just waves it away with his usual charm. At least, that’s what Alex assumes he does because he’s still processing the fact that he missed that first food exchange somewhere.

Ethan is already unfolding the paper bounty on a conga that someone must have forgot in here or abandoned because it’s clearly seen better days. It’s use as a table raises its value somewhat.

“Go on, take it out the bag before it sweats.” Miles hip checks him, and Alex staggers back to flop onto the settee he was lying in front of before. Miles nudges away the cushions with a foot to join him. It’s a two-seater, instrumental space being a priority in the live room, so Alex feels the warmth of his proximity prickle the hair on his arm.

He’s wearing one of those fancy fabric coats, a long black scarf hanging loose over his neck and dressed in neat clothes. It makes Alex feel a little bohemian in his brown trousers and crinkled white shirt. He wants to comb his hair back and feel less like _that_ guy, but without the presence of a comb he resorts to a scalp-deep finger comb that hopefully makes it look less like he’d been sleeping on the floor.

“Looked comfy, that.” Miles nods down at the mess, and Alex shrugs, opening the paper wrap in the space between them.

“T’was good for a while, helped me think.” The chips are potent with the smell of salt and vinegar, just on the side of too much that he likes best. He checks the bag, just to be sure, and blesses all that’s holy when he sees that small container of curry sauce.

“You look so happy,” Miles snickers when he pops open the cup, holding it on one knee as he starts on the chips.

“Miles, this is the face of a man, starved of inspiration and a decent brekkie, given his first chippy in ‘bout four weeks.” He points a curry-dipped chip at Miles, avoiding holding it over that nice coat. “Looking sharp,” he says, eyes taking him in again. He’s relaxed in the seat, hands loose over the arm rest. “Had a gig?”

“Nah, Bono’s birthday. Had a coupl’a drinks, the usual.” He shrugs, his wrist bouncing on the rest. His eyes flit around the room and then cut quickly to Alex. “You’re not writing?”

Alex shrugs. “Sometimes I get little things here and there but,” he shakes his head, feeling that familiar frustration creep into his voice, “nothing that gets me excited, like, you know, that feeling.”

Miles nods, eyebrows furrowed, and Alex immediately feels a little better, but simultaneously shitty for putting his troubles on yet another person. Except this isn’t any other person, it’s _Miles_ , and that makes him feel even shittier.

“It’s one of those days, ey? Back in the sludge. You can find good stuff down there too.” 

Alex is too hungry to mope. He wolfs down some more chips before responding, even allowing some to be stolen. It makes him feel less shitty.

“It’s shit is what it is,” he sighs, sitting back into the chair. “Tell me you’ve had more luck than me. You’ve got the face.” The face Miles makes to that- akin to a perplexed deer in the headlights- gets a smile tugging unbidden, onto Alex’s own. He points at it, grin widening as he teases. “There it is, tha’ fucking face. See.” Alex crows, almost choking on the chips. Miles surges forward, dramatically simpering, but then jumps when his pretty coat almost gets a smear of chip grease.

“You need to take that off.” Alex points, snickering. He’s aided with another curry-dipped chip. Miles finally shakes it off his shoulders, laying it over the back of the chair. The scarf isn’t as dear, because it gets bundled up and thrown onto the cushions at their feet. He sits back, steals another chip, but Alex knows he’s already eaten by the dainty way he picks at the smaller cut chips from the paper. He knows what he needs, has seen those twitching fingers, the gaze cutting to the back wall, and so he says, loud enough for Jamie and Ethan to hear.

“Wanna grab a guitar and play some tunes?”

Ethan hoots, already wiping his hands dry. Jamie looks back over to them, sees the way Alex gives him a pointed look, and it’s with reluctance that he stops crouching over the chips, snagging the last handful as he _pops to the gents._ Alex turns back to Miles. He’s giving him a knowing look, so Alex beams back full wattage. It makes him snort, but he’s doing what Alex knew was good for him and getting up to get a guitar.

“Want you on your game, Kane.” He says, getting comfortable on the settee.

“Oh! Look he’s rhyming now.” He hears Miles exclaim to Ethan, plugging in a sleek Fender that’s already been sitting out. Alex knows he’s tuned that one, so it doesn’t take long for Miles to start playing around on it. There’s a slowness in the way he starts that makes Alex wonder when the last time he’d played the guitar -any guitar really- was. He frowns, dwelling on it longer than need be probably. Every artist has their slump moments. Everyone falls into the sludge sometimes, it’s just the nature of it.

Alex watches, because he won’t let good food go cold and he’s hungry, but also because it’s nice to be the audience sometimes. Sufficiently warmed up, Miles explores the length of the fret board with a sudden tenacity that Ethan pauses over the drums for a second before launching into a solid 4/4 rhythm. Jamie rushes back from the gents, a tissue wiping hard at his hands, and picks up his electric.

“Show Miles the chords you were using!” Alex yells over the music, almost choking again. Miles looks up, and his face breaks into an exasperated smile. Alex jerks his chin at him, picking up another chip.

They do, and it takes no time at all for him to pick up the strumming pattern because it’s _Miles_ and he does guitar better than he does breathing. Ethan hollers as he slips right into the vibe they were jamming on before. Alex realises it must be that easy because he’d been in the mixing room for ages, he’ll probably be humming the bloody tune in his sleep.

It’s only an extra guitar but the change is significant.

Jamie is feeling it, because he’s got that furrow between his eyes and Ethan is kicking out fantastic rolls that make his fingers tap on his trouser leg. Miles spins with the guitar, and then he’s making his own riffs. And just like that music is being created. Alex stares, chips forgotten, because it’s almost ten in the evening but the fucking _sun_ has come out.

Writing is a bit like gardening. In a way, you need something to plant before it can grow. Alex has seeds, many of them, he knows what he can talk about, what he can make interesting or twist into an abstract description of something else. He knows the abstract, the seeds, but not the words, which had been driving him mad all fucking week.

It happens out of nowhere, but nowhere is relative to the context so in that case it comes from the deep waters of the sludge, leaping out like it was that easy all along. His mind whirls. He stares at the three of them, pushing each other to go harder, to show off- 

-and suddenly the words start to come.

“ _That grand coronation!_ ” He jumps up as he blurts it out. Miles turns a little so he’s playing in his direction and Alex sees him laugh, leaning back to strum at the strings. Hand outstretched to the studio window where Mark’s sitting, phone held up in front of his face, Alex sings, “ _There he sits, that joker_.” He waves, giving a screw-face kiss to the camera. His wife would like that. “ _There he sits, that chittering joker oh._ ” He rocks his hips to the guitar, finding the beat to add his lyrics. “ _He speaks and nobody listens, oh it’s a ghost of a celebration._ ”

The music changes a bit, Ethan keeping the beat strong but using the hi-hat to get a shiny feel to it. Miles’ guitar riffs at him, ringing out like a question. Alex plans to answer it.

“ _A play I’ve seen a thousand times,_ ” he croons at it. It’s not directly into any mic, but if Mark is doing his job and recording this, he’ll be able to pick up the voice from the surround mics dotted about the place. He slinks up to Miles’ side and wraps an arm around his neck as he sings, starting higher up the register now, “ _Walk me home baby, it’s getting tiring. Wake me up when the curtain calls_.” He croons the last few words, slipping his arm off Miles and feels like he’s in an electrical-pumped daze when he jumps into the middle, falling to one knee as he belts.

“ _It’s a fucking coronation. There he goes in his fancy coat._ ” He sees Miles’ legs twisting, moving to play at Ethan before spinning and Alex can see him bending his knees to thrust his playing at Jamie. Alex rocks on his heels, looking up at the whirlwind. Jamie is rocking those chords, taking a bar to play with Miles in a push and pull that Alex can’t help but watch. They spark and release, and Alex rocks up on his feet again to reach up to the ceiling light.

“ _Off to the sun, and nobody listens, because they’re watching the play._ ” He feels Miles against his back, and he leans into it, head tilting back to rest on his shoulder. It’s been so long since they’d done this. He’s missed it, and he knows its these thoughts which send his voice softer. “ _Watching the play they advertised, last Thursday._ ”

The tone of his voice doesn’t fit the drive of the music, but that’s because they’re missing a bass. Maybe keys. Maybe the tambourine. You never know until you try. He wants to try, but he also just wants to stay right where he is.

“ _They’ve got the little refreshments._ ” He shakes his hand out, curled to imagine catching that light in his palm, the rays bursting through the cracks of his fingers, soundless. Miles dips and he stumbles, recovering quickly so he can turn and lasso-mime Jamie who theatrically sticks out his neck and tongue like he’s being choked. It’s silly, and he laughs, wonders why they weren’t doing this before.

“ _Ready for a party, ready for the play._ ” He dances, no other words forthcoming. The seeds have sprouted forth, curling into strong buds he wants to prod at and see where it takes him. It’s exciting, and he feels relief as potent as salt and vinegar chips on a Thursday evening. He chuckles, and as the guys play on he belts out, spinning on his heel to where Miles is rocking his hips into the guitar.

“ _Warm me up like curry sauce, you spicy baby!_ ” They grin at each other, and Alex wipes his hair off his face, resisting to fully descend into giggles. “ _Build me up and fry me in your sweat_.” He swaggers forward, acting out the scenario he’s singing about like an interpretive dancer. It’s silly, and all shapes of perfect because Miles laughs and fucks up his picking which Alex takes as a massive fucking _win._

He lassos him and gets Miles ‘fighting’ the pull and then falling to his knees. It doesn’t affect his playing though. He slides high up the frets and Alex leaps to change his effect board to the spacey one he likes. It changes the tone and Miles takes to it like a duck to water, giving them Bowie-esque trills that makes Alex kneel on the floor and stretch his palms out to him. The light in his palms open and they absorb gleefully from the source.

Alex doesn’t look at the time again.

_…there he goes in his fancy coat, off to the sun,  
and nobody listens, because they’re watching the play.  
Watching the play advertised last Thursday.  
They’ve got the little refreshments, ready for a party, ready for the play.  
  
_

_Some shit about curry chips. Write a song about Kingfisher?  
Write a song about our Lord and Saviour M.F.K.  
Mother Fucking Kingfisher and Miles Fucking Kane._

It’s like a flood had opened that night. The buds of words that had popped into his head come back in the quieter hours, dainty tendrils that tease just out of reach. He weaves them into phrases, then into sentences, statements, and questions.

He hadn’t touched that moleskin in what felt like a solid two weeks, and in the night following that studio session he fills up three whole pages.

(They’re rough and a little shitty, but he keeps them all. Even the one about a spicy curry baby. It makes him laugh).

**2: Mender**

It’s a grey afternoon.

The one where the sun tries its best to shine from within the thick of the clouds but never quite making it. It’s the one like most afternoons are now, coming out of a British winter, pretty much at the same mild brightness until it gradually gets darker four hours later.

Some cycle. Alex snorts at it, watching as cars pass by on the street. He’s been feeling in a reflective mood as of recent, taken to walking around the house, an unlit cigarette between his fingers and taking moments to remember the stories behind the pictures on the walls. It’s not an energy that fruits productivity, but he’s adamant it’s not laziness either. Granted, he might be tempted for a nap, but it’s at that moment when his day gets planned out for him at the vibration of his phone.

He stops, hand floundering momentarily until he remembers where he stuffed it and fishes it out of his warm trackies. It only rings when it’s important, or for certain people, naturally. There’s an enigma to it, but honestly, it’s hard to be arsed to keep up with contacts, messaging, calling- anything of effort. He looks at the phone, and his thumb swipes green without a second thought.

“Fucking Kane.”

“Hey Al.” There’s Miles in his ear, and Alex turns to meander through the hall. “Coming back from me Mums, you doin’ anything today?”

“ _Ol’ Pauline,_ ” Alex sings out, turning into the kitchen area. “Nowt really, gonna give me a visit, Miles?”

“Thought I might pop over for a bit.” There’s background noise through the phone, and Alex wrinkles his face at it.

“You driving?”

Miles makes a put-on sigh. “You know what, Al? All the private jets were booked up.”

“Proper slumming it, aren’t ya?”

“Man of the people, me. You eaten?”

Alex hums absently, moving the pitiful pot of pasta off the heat to quietly slide it into the bin. “No.”

He knows Miles knows, and he bites back a grin at the beat of silence on the other end.

“Alright,” Miles says, and Alex can’t deny the smile any longer at his voice. He’s smiling, and he’s officially, royally, fucked.

He doesn’t need to look when the car eventually pulls up on the driveway.

“ _Time!_ ”

“Get that off, now.”

The muffled cackle he hears makes him want to smile, so he reaches blindly behind him for a lethal one-handed smother. Miles just grabs his hand, loosely holding it as he holds his ridiculously large phone in the other. The wailing sounds coming from it are a blast of nostalgia, but it’s hilariously so, so bad.

“ _And time!”_

“Oh time.” Miles hums along, and Alex slips his hand out so he can smother him again. Miles laughs but keeps a firm grip of his phone so Alex can’t yank it from him and throw it across the bed. “You remember this, Al? Fuckin’ blast from the past.”

Alex retreats, back against the foot of his bed as Miles lays on it next to him, head almost falling off the edge. “ _Time, wonder_. Still in me fucking head, that.”

“Want me to play it again?”

Alex shoves him away, refusing to smile at him, at _that._ “I’d like to know that’s how we’ll be remembered. _Oh those, helium-infused, balloon puppets_?”

“ _They_ made an album?” Miles drawls in horror, matching his tone. He’s swiping through his phone, and the video cuts out, mercifully. “ _Oh_ , that wailing one?”

“Oh yes of _course_. The dolphin, and the other gentleman with the _quite_ questionable style of dance.” He tilts his head back, quirking a brow at Miles. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Ooh indeed,” Miles purrs, and they can’t keep the scene up any longer, so it dissolves into another laugh. It’s a light feeling, giggling in his bedroom on a late afternoon. They’ve eaten the leftovers from Pauline’s already, and the sun has been slowly losing its fight with the passage of time. Time.

“Got that in me fuckin’ head now. Play us something, Mi, like old times.”

Miles tilts his head to the side, and his smile is so indulgently sweet Alex automatically faux sneers at him. He relaxes it a beat later, and even though Miles is clearly asking for another smothering Alex finds himself just taking him in. It’s random but he looks over his eyelashes, the crinkle in his nose, the lines around his brown eyes, dip in the curve of his mouth that stretches and says-

“Pass us the guitar then.”

Alex blinks, looking away to hand over the smaller acoustic that’d been lying in his lap. He’d been lazily practicing scales on it but then Miles had distracted him with videos on YouTube and then they’d all fallen into the black hole of pretty pictures and nostalgia.

There’s a theme, he thinks, watching as Miles arranges the guitar on his chest. His hands look massive over the neck, and Alex smirks at him when Miles tilts his head back to watch his reaction as he begins to strum that all familiar A minor.

“ _Want her, have her. Two years, have gone now but I_ …”

Alex sits back, smiling, because the nostalgia is too great, and because he’d never forgotten those harmonies. “ _I can’t relate to the never-ending games that you play._ ” He sings along, smoothly blending in like it hasn’t almost been that long since they’d sang this song together. It makes him _feel_ , so he leans his head back on the bed and pours it into the next line.

“ _As desire passes through, then you’re open to the truth, I hope you understand. And your love,"_ he feels Miles’ head knock against his, and he leans into it, “ _is standing next to me, is standing next to me._ ”

A couple of beats go past, the chords still going, and Alex bites his lip because _of course_ Miles forgot the lyrics. He gets a helpless grin when he laughs, and Alex brings his hand up to cover those puppy eyes with a shush. Miles keeps on playing, because he doesn’t need to watch the frets to know where to put his hands. Alex prompts him with ‘ _the one you…’_ which triggers the words because Miles finishes it with a–

“ _Makes it seem juvenile!”_

He chuckles, letting it stretch his cheeks a bit further because Miles can’t see it, “ _And you’ll laugh at yourself, again and again,”_ they sing, and Alex slides his hand off Miles’ eyes to finger-walk onto his scalp. “ _And we’ll drink to the thought she’ll remember you_.” Alex accentuates the _maybe tomorrow_ with a smooth rub over his short hair, leaving it resting on his forehead. Miles is strumming a little more aggressively now, and Alex closes his eyes as he follows his lead.

“ _And your love, is standing next to me. Is standing next to me._ ” They could perform this tomorrow and it’d be like nothing had changed. “ _And your love, is standing next to me. Is standing next to me._ ” Alex slips his hand down over his forehead, trailing over his face and neck to fit itself into the gap of the guitar and his body. He curls his body around to get the angle, and rests his own forehead against Miles' to sing, “ _is standing next to me. Is standing next to me._ ”

The last note he sustains into the build-up of the bridge and he falls into the temptation to wiggle his nose into the shell of his small ear, smiling when Miles trips over the chord progression. Alex finger-taps the beat with the hand wedged between the guitar and in no time they’re back on the A minor, but it’s with a slight change that his ears immediately pick up on.

“ _Want to, have her. It’s like two years have gone now, but I…_ ”

He doesn’t know how intentional that was, but it _feels,_ and it makes him feel so he rides with it, “ _Can’t relate to the never-ending games that you play._ ” He hears the strumming calm to a softer stroke and like instruments to a conductor they follow the dynamic by softening their own voices. Nostalgia has its own sound, but it doesn’t feel like nostalgia anymore. “ _As desire passes through, then you’re open to the truth. I hope you understand._ ”

“ _And your love, is standing next to me_.” Alex moves his head, and he can’t really hide what he’s doing, so he doesn’t, but it never really was a secret anyway. “ _Is standing next to me._ ”

Miles turns his head, still strumming, and his nose gets directly above his now. Alex flattens his hand on his chest and makes a tiny tilt with his head so Miles can fit into the crook of it. Voices a little breathy, but no less undeterred, they finish the song. “ _Is standing next to me,_ ” their faces brush, and Alex can feel Miles smile, his natural reflex, or superpower really, “ _is standing next to me…_ ”

There’s a lull, and as the words fade the A minor continues over it and Miles slowly ends with a final pick of each note. He raises his hand from the guitar, like he’s on stage, and Alex reaches up blindly to grab it. It’s an unbroken rhythm they fall into, an unspoken coda, that turns their faces into the broken boundaries of personal space and in the next breath they’re kissing.

They’ve kissed before, plenty of times. But now, the circumstances paint everything black and white. Despite it, they kiss like it was always easy, a different way of breathing Alex thinks. The angle is a little awkward, with Miles’ head hanging off the end of the bed as Alex captures the soft lips under his.

It’s delicately short, but it leaves Alex’s lips tingling, and he wants more. Miles is speaking then, words starting against his stubbly chin and then into the breath of space between them.

“I thought we weren’t gonna do that anymore.”

Alex blinks his eyes open, frowning. “I thought _you_ didn’t,” he says, trying not to sound like a muttering adolescent, like his chest isn’t clenching.

Miles takes a breath. “You know I do. Hey-” He reaches out to grab the hand that Alex deliberately let slip. The guitar slides out of his lap as he turns on his stomach. “Hey, let me finish. I just don’t wanna confuse things anymore, Al.” Miles gets a hand in his hair, tugging a little. Alex feels the urge to sink into it, to turn his face away, because Miles has those bloody sincere eyes that open all his dreary, dreary windows and he _can’t-_

“Al.” The fingers dig in, and Alex really can’t believe that they’re here, doing this again. “Alex.” Comes sharper, and the tilt of his thoughts halt along with the softer words. “Al, it’s okay.” The grip loosens, but Alex wants him to keep it there, wants the reassurance that he’s not gone fucked it up and lost him-again.

Miles smooths his hand over his head, brushing strands away from his face. He doesn’t let Alex fall into him, what he already knows as a last-ditch plan to hide his face. He keeps him at face level with another tug at the back of his head and Alex finally lifts his eyes to face him.

Miles is smiling, exasperated as fuck, but he’s smiling and Alex blinks at him, finally, slowly understanding.

Because _oh._

“We need to do this right, yeah? Me and you, the proper way.”

Alex replays it, hears the words echo in his mind.

_The proper way._

_Doing it right._

They’re words that Alex can’t say he hasn’t played around with before. When he walks through hallways of his house he thinks back to it, the familiar ache of what could have been. If only they’d done it right. If only they’d been luckier, or more resilient. They’d stayed in the sludge, right where he put them, because every single impossible dream would never know the light of day. But here it is, finally in the timid light of the afternoon.

“I was thinking about it.” Miles continues, and Alex’s attention immediately went to track his face. The pounding he hears is a mixture of Miles’ voice and the blood in his ears. “We couldn’t continue like that before. You were a right scampi last time,” and how long had it been since he’d been called _that_? “I didn’t know what was happening half’t time, and then it all got too much, but it’s gotta be different now.”

The ache of hope doesn’t feel as scary as his dreams made them out to be. It’s more like jumping on a train that went a little fast the last time, coal burning out too quickly at the unsteady tracks. There are scarier things though, like missing the train completely, and Alex refuses to be _that_ person. That person who can’t see a chance when it sings so smoothly into his ear, stares so sincerely at him.

Alex nods, feeling words that were much more eloquent in his head become rudimentary as they pass the tightness in his throat. “We can do that.”

Miles nods with him, giving the hand he caught a quick squeeze. “Think we’ve waited long enough, yeah?”

There are words he wants to say. Longer, grander phrases he wants to try out on his tongue, wants to know how they feel, and then see what effect it would bring to those puppy eyes. Dangerous effects, he thinks, and feels a mixture of excitement and affection all wrapped up anxiously in this gift that sits before him. It’s not nostalgia, it’s luck, or-better yet-a bloody miracle is what it is. He lets his head fall forward and gently bumps it with Miles.

“Fucking missed you,” he whispers, nose sliding against his rough cheek. Miles exhales, and he pulls Alex up so they’re on the same level on the bed.

“Bent me so far out of shape, baby,” he sighs, arms slipping around him, and Alex fears if he were to smile he’d cry in mortifying relief at the pet name. _Don’t make no mistake,_ his mind helpfully adds on to the unfinished lyric. He wants to laugh, because these albums never leave; they’re in the very fabric of his brain. Literally and figuratively.

Lips brush his cheek, and he leans into it for a second before turning his head and aligning their mouths to be captured in a bruising kiss. The press of Miles against him with his tongue teasing at his lips makes him realise he’s smiling. And, indeed, the dampness he feels on his cheeks as he opens his mouth a little more and tastes what Miles eagerly gives him lets him know his eyes had betrayed him.

He manages to apply a quick bit of stealth and rub them dry on Miles’ shoulder when they part, as if Miles hadn’t already tasted the salt of them on his own lips. Miles doesn’t comment on it, but he’s quiet as he tucks a warm hand under his shirt to caress the trembling skin there.

Alex also thinks he manages to keep the same bite of indignation when he says before Miles pulls them back onto the bed, “If I were a scampi, you were a right fucking peacock.”

_Tapetum lucidum.  
My second eye is a howl into the black recesses of my own fears you gladly took.  
Dip me under the holy water of the tears they shed for your love.  
The glimmering surface shining back. Tapetum lucidum onto my irises._

**3: Navigator**

Of course, ‘doing it the proper way’ falls in the wake of lockdown.

A lot of things stop, suspended in the void like falling marionettes right before crash landing on Earth. According to the radio- of which Alex had spent a solid ten minutes listening to until it began to repeat itself and then hid away in his studio for the rest of the day-people should stay at home and not visit any other households for the next two weeks.

It’s brought to his attention, when Miles’ car pulls up on the driveway the next day, that he’s missed some important information.

“We both live alone, you dolt, we can still visit each other,” he says into the slope of Alex’s shoulder, taking no time that morning to wrap Alex up and pull him in the minute he steps out of the car. “This is why you need to stay connected, it’s important.” Alex just holds on tighter, the flutter in his tea-lined stomach accompanied by a dizzying sense of relief.

They go out, because freedom has a new meaning now, and it’s a sweeter feeling to enjoy the mundane -yet now politically potent- activity of catching some fresh air with Miles. The natural progression of their careers had brought them to live in London -the shiny grubby capital- but passing through the streets now makes Alex feel like he’s in a post-apocalyptic movie scene. The pedestrian areas that used to be teeming with people are now blowing with the debris of dried out cigarettes amongst the backdrop of closed businesses.

He thinks, gaze lingering on a dark empty café with the ‘open’ sign facing out, it’s what London would look like in an artist’s slump.

It’s mad, and there’s an unspoken agreement to not comment on the dreariness of it all. Instead, Miles gets out his phone and starts to tap around on it. Before Alex can get disgruntled over being put second place to technology Miles slides it away in that fashionista black peacoat and brings a small white ear pod to Alex’s ear. He’s grinning, putting in his half as Alex takes it and fits it in.

He tucks his hat over it and recognises the track after a couple of seconds. The mono audio output is kind to his ear and he hums in approval at the choice.

“Thought this was a Blue Nile moment,” Miles says, and the moment he does Alex feels a damp drop on his cheek. He looks up at the afternoon sky, noticing that the clouds look a little darker overhead. In a burst of animation he wordlessly snaps his fingers at the sky, secretly enjoying how the suddenness makes Miles jump. It doesn’t take him long to get it though and he laughs.

“Bloody psychic I am.”

Alex snorts, but he doesn’t disagree. “It were bound to happen.” He hip checks him, then slots firmly into his side with a hand dropping into his fancy coat pockets. “You’re a god amongst men.” He enjoys the feeling of Miles’ hand twisting into his inside the pocket, the warmth tickling his fingers.

The clouds don’t fully break on them, just piss enough mist to make an umbrella useless (not that they brought any) and to make his face get steadily damp. There’s a little bubble they make now, walking through empty streets to equally empty tourist spots with the Blue Nile’s _Tinsel Town in the Rain_ a chilled soundtrack in their ears.

They walk along the Thames, taking the path that overlooks the water that tour boats use to shuttle across every hour, nearing the Cutty Sark memorial. It’s slightly more residential this way, but still the only people they pass are a couple of dog walkers and the odd jogger. 

“The year is 1969,” Alex announces, shivering, and a lone herring gull flies overhead to land on the manufactured shore beside the river walk.

“And London is freezing me tits off!” Miles squeezes their joint hands and takes his black scarf on a second loop around his mouth, tucking the rest into the vee of his coat. Alex takes in his pink nose peeking out of the scarf, the small ears exposed to the chill (because this man didn’t think wearing a hat was essential clothing) and tuts.

“Wait a sec.” He stops them, stepping in front of Miles. He untucks the scarf, unwinding it from those flushed cheeks to pull it free. He watches for a second when Miles exaggerates chattering teeth and gets gripped in a rush of something warm and possessive he has to tip forward to kiss him right there. The river Thames’ wind in one ear and Blue Nile serenading his other.

Miles leans into him, and Alex sighs against his cold lips, pressing in one more kiss before pressing his face in close and pulling away. He takes those cheeks in his hands, helplessly amused by those puppy eyes.

“You make a sorry sight.”

_Yes, I love you,_ sings through their shared ear pods, but Alex almost startles at it, thinking he’d heard his own thoughts aloud.

Miles exaggerates his pout, and Alex laughs, dropping a last peck on his bottom lip. “Right.” He unfolds the scarf and makes quick work of turning it into a headscarf, covering up those cold ears, and then finishes it by wrapping it around his mouth and tucking the ends into the coat neck. He gives him a once over and nods, satisfied.

“Do I get the Turner approval?” Comes within the swath of fabric.

Alex slips back into his side and wraps an arm across his waist. He tucks his hand into the pocket on the other side which Miles crowds his own into, fingers twisting loosely together.

“Best not look, honestly.”

The cackle is muffled, but warm air bursts forth into the cold air. “I’m sure I look like a proper mod.”

Alex hums contentedly, and the song slips into another Blue Nile’s _Let’s Go Out Tonight_. “Kate Moss can’t touch ya, Mi. And there’s the Cutty Sark.”

The grand structure of the ship stands proudly amongst the landscape. They’re on the opposite site of the river but the view is good enough for a solid appreciation. Good enough for pictures too, by the French tourists that stop them as they walk past. Two young ladies, and they look much more prepared for the weather than they do.

They get Alex to take the pictures as they pose, with only a couple awkward silences when he makes the mistake of politely asking if they want it in portrait or landscape. English seems to be the common language between them, but accents are a different kettle of fish altogether. It takes Miles translating for him by softening his accent and using his own sketchy knowledge of French to get through the shaky interaction and eventually wave them goodbye.

“S’like I’m speaking another language,” Alex grumbles as they take the underground steps to the Cutty Sark. The pedestrian tunnel is eerie in the emptiness, giving the impression from the Blitz-era bunker walls and questionable graffiti design of a perfect setting to get stabbed in. So far, it’s just them and a fella on his bike who’s quickly cycling past the ‘Cyclists Please Dismount’ signs the graffiti just about missed.

“ _Don’t know why I can’t just be understood lik’a normal person_ -ow! Alright.” Miles cuts off the exaggerated Sheff accent at Alex’s elbow. They snicker again, and Alex forgot just how long this tunnel was. It was a nice shortcut to get across the river, but the interior could be done up a bit.

“I'm gonna go back to it.”

It’s a testament to either Alex’s general vagueness or Miles’ established psychic abilities that he doesn’t need to ask the context.

“I thought you were going to ages ago.”

Alex huffs, because he knows Miles knows that he hadn't, freaked out by the sinisterly happy green owl that sent him 'encouraging' reminders every day. He'd deleted it after three days. He makes a face, sure it looks like he’s remembering a bad taste. “I'm gonna go back to it.”

Miles snickers, mouth peeking out of his scarf wrap. “There are other apps, you know, probably better ones.”

“But you have this one,” Alex points out. “I can't have you whizzing off past me. Mister Big Shot on your...Eurostar rocket to the big leagues.” The words sound jumbled in his mouth, hastily decorated in the description because Miles was giving him _that_ look so he finishes his tirade with, "Ornithological seduction of the Green Gestapo."

Miles is smiling, and he’s quite bloody cute that Alex squeezes him tighter to his side. “That sounds smart.”

“It’s terrible.”

“ _Terribly_ smart.” He leans in, cold nose playfully butting against Alex’s cheek and gets pushed away with a snort out of an exasperated smile.

Eventually they make it to the end of the tunnel. Wallets and phones still in place. When they reach the top of the spiral steps Miles takes his phone out again to snap a photoshoot-worth of pictures at the imposing structure of the famous Cutty Sark.

He manages to rope Alex into his selfies, a good half of them of which he ruins by pretending that he’s never seen Miles before in his life. In others he hovers too close into his face, lips puckering expectantly, and then pulling back at the last minute when Miles turns into it to catch him.

“Greenwich park is right there,” Alex says, after taking a clever picture that made Miles look like he was leaning against the deck like he owned the thing. He knows that one will go straight to his mum, tagged with a ‘Surprise! Bought a boat X’.

“Shall we sneak into the observatory?” Miles asks, quirking a brow as they walk off the site. He catches him round the waist and Alex plants both hands on his chest, feeling his hat twist lopsidedly. Miles fixes it, scarf now back to normal around his neck. He’d seen those first selfies and had burst out laughing, taking a few more for the sake of it and then fixing the head-scarf-wrap invention back to a normal scarf state. “ _I look like a French actress,”_ he’d said, and Alex had ruined the rest of his pictures in revenge.

“Shall we,” Alex starts, eyes cutting away to the peeking canopy of Greenwich park and then back to Miles’ amused ones, “’ave a sneaky one int’ planetarium?”

The exaggerated accent makes Miles push his own. “Oh, _darling_ , do me dirty against the moon’s side boob will ya?” The mirth twinkles in his eyes and Alex isn’t strong enough to hold back that bark of laugh that rises out of him. His breath still mists in the air, but he doesn’t feel cold. His cheeks hurt from smiling, and when he calms down he shakes his head at Miles, chuckling again.

“Never say that again.”

Miles pouts at him, and Alex grips the smooth lapels of that fancy coat to pull him into a kiss. He tilts his head and takes it deeper, enough that it skirts the line of inappropriate public behaviour. Alex couldn’t give two fucks about that now though, only caring for the feel of Miles’ tongue tasting the warmth of his mouth in the frigid air. As Alex surrenders to it, he feels an excitement building in his stomach at the idea of what they could get away with. They could be reckless when it suited them, and Alex just _wonders_ -

He likes to think he talks the big talk and follows through. But his _couldn’t give a fuck_ attitude gets tested when Miles walks him backwards and crowds him up against the glass building just underneath the Cutty Sark. Alex’s hands scramble up from his coat lapels to grip the back of his neck, grunting when sure hands slip under his coat to grasp firmly at the curves of his arse. Miles must have wondered too.

Alex rocks his hips up once- _once_ -and then chickens out, feeling his face warm at the sight they must be making. “Alright, right,” he laughs, but it’s mostly air. Miles moves from his neck to nuzzle at his cheek which Alex rubs back with his own for a second before letting him go, feeling hands leave his arse to slip respectfully around his waist again. Alex peers around them. Thankfully, the street is empty. Save for- oh, God.

His groan sends Miles snapping his head around to what he’d seen, but Alex determinedly starts pulling him towards the park.

“What?”

“Jus’ keep ye head down.”

Miles cranes his head around like a turtle in mating season, and Alex knows he caught on when he makes a high-pitched noise and turns back.

He thinks they got away with it, and curses Miles for making him act like a randy twenty-year-old again, when they get stopped at the gates to the park.

“Should you be out here, lads?”

It’s a police officer, one of the community ones. He looks them over, taking in Miles’ arm slung over his neck and their (most definitely) flushed faces.

“Uh,” Alex says eloquently.

Miles shrugs his shoulder, as if he didn’t make a squeak at that police car _with people watching_ them bump dirties against a national landmark. “We’re jus’ takin some time out, getting some fresh air, you know? S’not closed right?”

The police officer frowns, and-hilariously-it’s the same look those French ladies gave them across the river. Alex watches him and bites his lip, lest he burst out laughing at the fucking irony.

“Parks are only available for exercise purposes. All tourism facilities are closed.”

“Yeah, we wanted to go on a jog, didn’t we Al?”

Alex nods, still watching the guy’s face wrinkle in concentration. He could almost see the translation happening in real time, the universal _ok let’s replay that because what the fuc-_

“A jog, right?” Alex hesitates, because that sounded a little rhetorical. The guy takes in their designer coats, skinny jeans and corduroy trousers, fucking loafers, and Chelsea boots-

“Alright gentlemen,” he says, looking pained but resigned, and Alex wonders if he’d seen them against the Cutty Sark. “But remember the social distancing rules. Support bubbles still have the same rules as everyone else. It’s not a holiday.”

Alex wants to say something smart, but he holds back.

“Thanks man, come on Al.” Miles steers them away, and as they walk further into the park he realises with a start that Peter Gabriel’s _Games without Frontiers_ is quietly playing in his ears. They pass a tree covered with buds, readying for spring, and a robin flits through the branches as Alex announces:

“The year is 1984.”

Miles snorts, “And Londoners still don’t understand me accent. Unbelievable. It’s like we’re-”

“-speaking another language!” Alex finishes with him, and their laughs send misty clouds into the air.

_Strange encounters.  
Can you talk the code? It’s a new language baby, we learnt it in our sleep.  
Transatlantical star ships in my eye, the twinkle of the coming,  
like Big Brother in your dreams.  
Ain’t he a dickhead too?_

**4: Connector**

The studios close, because of course they do, and the polite email they send about it has words like ‘ _government guidelines_ ’, ‘ _fully refunded_ ’, and ‘ _in a pandemic_ ’ which Alex gets, he does, but he also wants to scream into a void.

“It’s infuriating.”

“No-one knows what’s happening, they just don’t want to be fined.”

“If we paid double, they would open for us.”

“Then you’d just be shelling out more money that ain’t coming back, Al, s’not worth it.” Water splashes, and Alex squints through the screen to see how the bubbles sluice down Miles’ arm as he adjusts the phone.

It’s a strange, phantom limb sensation to see him like that and not be able to touch like he wants to. They’re doing it properly, _taking it slow_ , was the new thing Miles said the other day. It’s a thing, when they’re together they burn hot and bright, and it’s all they’ve ever known really. The explosive energy that they feed off from each other, but the light can often shine too bright, too blinding they’d learnt.

Yeah, it had hurt, but time had cooled those burns, soothed gradually by the sight of each other amongst friends, or for work, doing better, working things out in their own way. Alex had long accepted that it wasn’t something they could control, this thing they have. He’d tried, and he doubts there are any parallel universes where he and Miles successfully ignore it or tame it into a simple friendship. It wouldn’t work, and he’s sure of it.

_What are we, but a result of explosions and universes, pretending that we aren’t being pulled into the Earth’s magnetic core?_

He aims the phone, so Miles gets a close-up of his face, and sits back against the pillows on the bed. “Did you manage to clean the shit off your coat?”

Miles groans, “Next time we go to Greenwich park we’re wearing raincoats, or that fancy range from Tesco.”

“Knew that robin had an… _uncanny_ interest in you, Mi.”

“Proper felt like Snow White for a minute though-oops.” The plastic shower gel slips from his fingers and he splashes his hand under the water to retrieve it.

Alex watches with high amusement, and his toes curl under the patterned bed throw. “Miles, _why_ are you using shower gel in the bath?”

He grins up into the camera, soap bubbles squeezing from his washcloth as he moves it over his shoulders. “Like you’ve never done it,” he scoffs. The angle of the camera puts Alex right in the line of the lip of the bath, so the rest is up to his imagination. “Gets more bubbles, and I’m almost out of me spa kit.” Alex watches that lithe body through the water, and he waits impatiently for technology to advance enough so that he can step through and join him.

“I ordered some hospital-grade masks-”

Alex grimaces, slouching back into the pillows. “I’m not wearing it.”

Miles gives him a _look_ as he sinks into the water, deep enough now so Alex can only see his head over the lip. “If you’d listen to the news like normal people do, you’d know you can’t just walk into a shop without one anymore.”

“I’ll claim political immunity.”

He doesn’t get the expected rolled eyes. Miles is quiet as he runs another cloth over his face and Alex senses this is something Miles wants him to take seriously, and he wonders just how disconnected from society he’d been recently.

With a sigh he brings his phone closer to his face, panning it over his eyes so he can see the sincerity of a slow blink. “Sorry Mi. I’ll wear it, but not like, you know, walking down the street or summat.”

“No, of course not. That’s not what it’s for.” Miles looks over at the camera now, probably just seeing one blurry close-up of Alex’s eye, and blows him a little kiss. Alex holds the phone out so Miles can see him clasp his hand over his cheek.

“You should listen to LBC more.”

The mention of the radio station ‘ _Leading Britain's Conversation’_ has him smile wryly. “They have debates about whether ketchup should be in the fridge or cupboard.”

“And other important things! It helps you know, keeps you connected with real people. They also have a sex advice hour in the later hours.”

He feels the smile turn into a smirk. “Oh yeah? I’ll give ‘em a bell, shall I?”

“Go on, give ‘em a bell and woe to them ‘bout your sex life.”

“I’ll put me woes out there on’t radio, yeah? I’ll tell them you fucked off to take a bath in me time of need.”

Miles laughs up at the ceiling, and the water sloshes a little over the rim. He must have filled the tub up fully, a proper spa night and all. Alex wonders if he had Dr Hook on repeat when he’d texted, lamenting about disappointing emails and (not so subtly) demanding to be included in the fun Miles was having without him.

“Yes, but then I called because you asked, didn’t I?” More suds drip over his chest as he reaches out for something and begins to rub it into his hair. “And then I was telling you ‘bout a dream I had, but you went on about the studio-”

“Yes! Fuck, yes the dream.” Alex jolts upright, almost missing the fond eye roll Miles shoots his way. “Right, yes, the dream. Do carry on.” He gets comfortable, blinking expectantly at Miles and failing to hide a smile at the unimpressed look gets.

He listens as Miles continues his tale, and halfway through gives up on attempting to figure it out. It’s a blend of a movie he’d watched, and then random scenes of palm trees in a kitchen with other strange appearances of animals dotting throughout. There’s not much of a plot, but there _could be_ and Alex mind whirls on it as Miles finishes with a chuckle.

“Silly yeah?” He dips his head back and scrubs at it with his hands.

“I’ve heard worse,” he teases and rolls off the pillows to reach across the bed to grab his moleskin. “Probably from meself, actually.” Miles is smiling, eyes closed, so Alex flips to an empty page, right before taking a sneaky screenshot on his phone.

He writes down the whole thing at the end of the call.

**5: Ground Controller**

It’s something Alex knows, but just forgets how he can be.

Take for example, a year ago when they were partying with friends in a karaoke bar- the eighth wonder of the world that going abroad had introduced them to. Miles had just belted a duet with an old work friend James and his wife and was taken on an impromptu dance-around with a fella as Oasis blasted through the speakers. He’d come bounding back and Alex had sipped at his drink, watching and grinning over the rim as he swayed to the music.

So now the tunes are good and he’s happy, feeling loose and warm. Friends and music surround him, glowing words on the monitor, and then it’s all tipping sideways because he’s falling. His hand tightens on the glass, but he’s saved by a quick arm snaking around his waist. Miles leans in, and his breath is a warm huff in his ear.

“God, Al you don’t even know you’re doing it.”

As he’s righted he realises, when Miles turns and the light briefly catches his silver bracelet, that he’d been leaning his whole body weight into Miles’ side. It’s a hitch in the space-time continuum that he’d never really noticed until now. A slip and slide into the realm of No Man’s Land, crossing the border of blurred lines that _they said_ they weren’t going to do anymore. Even this, however small and natural-and comfortable-it felt.

Miles takes a swig of his beer, arm still anchoring Alex close to where they’re standing in the small audience as their friends fight over who gets to sing the next song. It’s a pop song now, and Alex immediately scowls at whoever looked expectantly at him when someone yelled _One Direction._

“Sorry,” he says quickly into his ear, which has Miles tightening his hand for a second and then letting it slip away to his side. Alex tries to reorient himself, feeling strangely like his centre of gravity had shifted. He doesn’t like it, and he doesn’t want to think about what it means.

Since then, it’d been a habit he’d been trying to break but, like the sun on a Winter afternoon, he doesn’t quite manage it. There’s just an underlying biological reason, he works it out one night, why his body does that.

It’s because Miles is a magnet, no-the fucking _sun_. He’s the sun and Alex is, helplessly, caught up forever in his orbit.

He thinks it now, a year later and sitting on his home studio settee as the solo guitar of Pink Floyd’s _Shine On You Crazy Diamond (Pts. 1-5)_ falls effortlessly from those talented fingers. The music is blasting through the speakers, the build-up loud past the five-minute mark, but Miles is louder, and he’s burning so bright Alex can’t look away.

Miles glances up now and then, catching his eyes as his hand glides over the frets, making the notes bend and ring. Alex feels himself smile, helplessly, and it’s reflected in Miles’ own as he thrusts into the next movement, yanking the neck of the guitar up to the ceiling to let it ring again.

“Fucking hot.”

Miles laughs, settling the guitar back onto his hips. He continues, skipping off to his own solo and back into the vibe of the song like it’s as easy as breathing. It’s at times like this, Miles up there and Alex down here, when he can feel the song speaking to him. The guitar is Miles’ second language and it’s a fluency Alex genuinely feels like he understands. He knows what it means, can hear the question and the longing as well as he can see those teeth biting down on his lip.

Alex sits up, preparing to stand and go to him, but something in Miles’ quick glance up stops him. Miles glides closer, still playing over the part where the main guitar cuts out, and Alex slowly sits back as his heart skips in realisation. It starts with a socked foot propped up on the arm rest, crotch angled directly at Alex’s face. Alex can’t laugh, can only watch as Miles sways along to the song, head bent in concentration and necklace dangling as his fingers dance back and forth.

It makes every hair on Alex’s body quiver when he slips his foot down and kneels carefully onto the seat, and then settles onto Alex’s lap. There are two knees on either side of his hips now, and the guitar is held precariously between them. It’s so close Alex can see every movement of the strings. He can feel them, the vibration running over his skin, into his veins and through his body. It’s almost too much, but he loves it, loves _them_ and he blurts out:

“Let’s try for another baby.”

Miles hits a wrong note, but the dissonance complements the taken-aback look on his face. He slows down to pick chords, but he’s watching Alex as he does. There’s no doubt he sees that searching gaze Miles is giving him back. Alex gives it to him as raw as he can, shows that he’s serious about it. It’s been so long since the last one, and he realises he wants it more than ever. He lets out a shaky breath, smiling up at him as he places firm hands on those slim hips above his lap.

“M’serious, Mi. I want it.”

Miles stops completely then, hand curled over the guitar neck despite it being securely strapped to him already. Pink Floyd’s soundscape continues to paint the walls. “Shit, Al, you’re sure, yeah?”

Alex squeezes lightly. “Fuck, yes I’m sure. But I’m also terrified? Just because, you know.” He shrugs, _you’re you, and I’m me._ He doesn’t say, but he knows Miles can read them as well as he can read what he’d been telling him with the guitar. _We burn so bright, but not every rocket reaches the moon._

Miles nods, because he gets it. Alex holds on as he bends forward to brush his lips against his cheek. “We won’t let it happen again. Things are clearer now.” Their noses brush, and Alex hums, hands slipping up his shirt.

“Hindsight is always 2020,” he says, and feels Miles nod against his face, feels the slight press of the electric guitar into his ribs. The scent of him is citrusy, a tantalising feel of rough stubble and smooth skin that he feels claimed under.

“That’s right, and we know better, don’t we? Know how to take things slow.” Miles lets go of the neck to slide warm and callused fingers onto Alex’s collarbone, moving slowly up to cup his jaw. His lips trail over his cheek, over his nose, and Alex tips his chin up so they can slide their lips together.

_Come on you raver, you seer of visions._

He sighs into the kiss, but the built-up tension makes it sound rougher than what he was going for. Miles responds to it, leaning closer and catching Alex’s bottom lip in his teeth. He lets it go and when Alex opens his eyes Miles is smiling, thumb caressing the skin of his cheek. He leans in, the closeness quick enough to make Alex chuckle, their lips are captured again, and Miles breathes into the next one, “Let’s make another baby.”

_Come on, you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine._

Alex shivers, was that how he sounded? He feels the blush coming, but it’s thankfully hidden under Miles’ hands as he’s kissed again under the spell of Floyd. It turns him warm, makes him want to curl over Miles and feel every edge of his body. “Yes, fucking want it.” He gets out around those lips catching his again. Miles laughs, and the kiss breaks up momentarily as he composes himself.

That’s probably when he realises the guitar is still strapped to him. “Shit, Al, you should have said.” He reaches to pull it off, but Alex curls his hand over his. He knows what he looks like now, the lover in the fray, lulled eyes blinking up at Miles. Biting his lip through a wry smile, he just shakes his head.

It gets him a moan, and God help him but he loves the sound of it. “Fuck it.” Miles lets it drop. But before he lets it go, because the bloody thing is still plugged in, he fires off a quick hammer-on riff and angles the body so it rings right into Alex’s flushed face.

“Fuck, Mi,” he gasps, reaching for him, or gets pulled into his orbit once more, each description works really. The strings brush against him, the heavy weight of the guitar presses in close and it’s the hottest thing he can think of with Miles like this above him, on him, inside him.

“ _Un bebe, numbre trois,_ ” he says into Miles’ mouth and slowly smiles at the snicker he gets.

“Al, Jesus.” Miles shuts him up with his tongue, and it’s a glorious dance they share because he momentarily forgets what he said or why when Miles pulls back and says into his cheek:

“ _Trois bebe, cheri. Pour vous, cheri_.”

Alex hums, fingers finding their natural place in Miles’ hair. He scratches over the scalp, enjoying the eye flutter it makes. “Mm, but first,” he says, and when Miles looks at him he reaches down to squeeze at his bum, “put a tune on, baby. It’s giving us static.”

He gets a playful butt to the head, which he eagerly presses into. “Bloody cheek, you are,” Miles says, but he goes to unfold himself from Alex. He takes the guitar off, which is a right shame, but Alex contents himself with the fact that the show’s not over yet. He watches those long legs strut around the studio and by the time he comes back Alex has already stripped off his top and is halfway through pulling his belt off.

He pauses when he sees Miles’ grin. It’s smug enough to make Alex study him with narrowed eyes, but when the song starts to play it dawns on him and his arm falls to his stomach in a startled laugh.

“You’re hilarious.”

Miles smirks, settling back down to peck his lips again, chaste, but Alex chases it anyway. “This is top of me new playlist: _Sweet Lovin’_.” He laughs at Alex’s groan. “Nah.” He leans in, and the taste of the skin underneath his ear has Alex shutting up quickly, “It’s called _Baby,_ ” he murmurs, kissing lightly at his ear that causes simmering solar flares in other regions.

“Number three,” Alex interjects, melting into his touch.

“That’s right baby, number three. Baby number three. We’re doing it.” Miles is getting into it again, biting sharp which makes the fire in his gut flare up, along with his hips. They’ve teased enough now, and he pushes into him, finally getting Miles to slip his hand between the belt loops and slide it free. Miles moves to pull his shirt off, and Alex is pulled into close orbit once more, this time with Tina Turner’s _Undercover Agent for the Blues_ crooning through the room.

He’s not coming back to surface for a while yet.

**6: Riddler**

Deciding to make another album is a whole different process from actively making one.

It’s a process that first requires a celebration. A long, drawn out celebration Alex thinks, remembering the initial one fondly. Celebration: Food, music, sex, the whole shebang, so Alex has no idea why, the day after their album-he snorts to himself- _release day_ , they’re walking through London’s Kew Botanical Gardens.

It’s beautiful, it really is, but-

“S’fucking brass monkeys out’ere.”

Miles laughs, and it just cements Alex’s point when his breath clouds in front of him. “Is a bit nippy ey? Come on.” He makes another loop of Alex’s scarf, which he’s sure then falls in an unflattering way, and throws an arm over his shoulder. They walk down the wide pathway in a leisurely pace to take in the neatly manicured beds. It’s deserted, much like Greenwich was, probably because it’s a little more out of the way.

Alex had listened to a whole segment on LBC as he took his morning tea and got thoroughly educated in the public opinion of the government’s current handling of COVID-19. From what he’d got, it seemed that no-one would be out in these places for a while, or maybe they didn’t know it was still open. Whatever the reason for the lack of public, Alex quite liked walking through the picturesque park with Miles close into his side. He could imagine it was their own private garden.

Of course, he doesn’t stay close for long. When they reach a fancy-looking manicured hedge, that looked like it took a ladder and a pain in the arse to shape, he slips his arm off Alex’s neck and takes out his phone for a picture.

“Al, let me get one with you in there.”

Alex has a determined reply on the tip of his tongue, but it’s swiftly cut off by the wide-eyed glance back Miles sends him. He’s a weak bastard, so he adjusts his sunglasses and steps forward to fold his arms in front of the leafy display. Miles makes a face at him, and Alex does _not_ break into a smile, despite what it looked like in the picture.

Their adventure takes them through a dome-like greenhouse, and it’s a good thing no-one’s there because the social distancing is a little difficult with the narrow space. Alex takes a couple of pictures of Miles posing against a backdrop of drooping palm trees and a few other palms that he secretly wants in the house. It won’t survive for long, not out of a climate-controlled greenhouse, and that thought depresses him.

“These are moments when I fucking miss L.A,” Alex says when they finish gawping around at the tropical plants and head for the exit.

“You’re right, it was a bit like that,” Miles laughs. His eyes linger on a trailing plant and Alex makes a reminder to buy it for him. British weather be damned, it could go in his bathroom. “A mini paradise.”

Going back into the outdoor displays makes him miss the warmer weather even more as the wind picks up and swiftly freezes his face better than any Hollywood Botox doctor. He reiterates it being _fucking brass_ and forgoes fashion for a bit to pull his hat further over his ears. Miles is wearing an actual hat this time, so the scarf that wraps fully around his face makes his voice muffled when he says, “Thought about going back?”

The question startles Alex for a second, and he grabs at Miles’ hand when they walk through the circular path. “For work, definitely, but there’s a lot we can do from home base.”

“Or France,” Miles says, and Alex wants to kiss him. He squeezes his hand, imagines them back there for pre-production, recording, lazing about, making love with candles and coffee scenting the air as records played in the background. He can smell it already.

“Hard to see that now though,” Miles sighs, and it’s thanks to the morning radio debate about further restrictions that Alex has an idea of his worries. It might not be Shangri-La or _La Fabrique_ but there are many places for them to go, eventually, when the time comes.

“We’ll do it right ‘ere, Mi.” Alex pulls at his hand and it sends Miles stumbling towards him. There’s a determined rush he gets that wants nothing more than to smooth those creases away. Already the crinkle of a frown has turned into faint amusement and Alex shoves himself in between the clouds, dispersing them with steady hands sliding up to curl over his shoulders.

Miles nods towards the garden, “In those daffodils there?” It’s light but also half-serious and Alex gets further into his space, a hand moving to his neck.

“Right in the flower beds,” he murmurs it like it’s a secret, though with the way Miles is looking at him it might as well be. Alex bends his head forward. “We’ll record our new LP under the willow,” he brings him into a kiss, then murmurs into his cold lips, “under the ash.” Miles noses at him and the next kiss is chaste but sweet. “LP three.” They snicker, and it sends them into another kiss that Alex lets his lips linger into, holding Miles in place by his scarf-wound neck.

“Still need to name this thing,” Miles says, once he’s sufficiently satisfied and Alex gets a prideful moment for that pinked out mouth. He takes his hand again, rubbing his fingers over his knuckles.

“We do. In my head it’s ‘Baby Three’.”

It sends Miles on another snicker. “There’s an idea.”

They stumble through the meadow flowers and as the day warms up to a slightly brighter afternoon, they end up in their third greenhouse, staring at an exhibition of exotic plants that, _“Fucking eat ants, Al, look at that!_ ”

The info plaque calls it a pitcher plant, and when Alex reads it- actually reads it, not just gets excited from a distracted glance, he understands that it’s more of a symbiotic relationship than predatory. But he lets Miles have his fun.

“ _Nepenthes bicalcarata,_ ” Miles reads the scientific name and Alex snorts, sliding up from behind to wrap his arms around him.

“ _Bicalcara’ah._ ” he repeats, exaggerating a Cockney accent which has Miles going on his own accented tangent that could normally risk getting socked in the face.

“Just fuckin’ call it ‘Clara, ya know.”

Alex squeezes, and lays on his strongest Sheff accent. “Oi Clara, ye got any ants in there?”

Miles snickers, and Alex sticks to his back as he attempts to walk around the exhibition. He thickens his own accent, so much that Alex might have to concentrate to understand if he didn’t already know what they were joking about. He laughs against his neck when Miles drawls, “Ey Clara, ye got any ants in’dere or wha’?”

Alex sees a worker further down the greenhouse, a blue clipboard in her hand but eyes frequently peering over her glasses. He can’t tell if that was a smile or a painful grimace at their obvious ignorance, but then he realises it’s because she’s wearing a visor and they’re not, and he squeezes Miles’ waist.

“Should probably go outside.”

Miles sobers up when he sees what Alex was referencing. He takes the path of the exit, almost stumbling with Alex plastered to his back. “Sorry, love,” he says when they pass her, and she gives them space to leave, nodding awkwardly.

Alex sighs when they leave the greenhouse, adjusting his sunglasses by bumping them up against Miles’ neck. The sun has managed to break through-what a breakthrough indeed-a gap in the clouds so it’s bright _and_ cold, which is probably the best they’ll be getting today.

“She probably thinks we’re bloody mad,” Miles says, but it’s not like they’ve not already been described as that before-by friends _and_ family. Alex huffs something in agreement, links his hand over his wrist and manages to crab walk the two of them away from the exit and into a larger garden space where the theme seems to be _spring yellow_.

“They look pretty.” Miles obviously wants to take his phone out but Alex’s arms hold him down.

“Spring is coming, Miles.”

Miles wriggles, and Alex holds on tighter. “But they bloomed early, didn’t they? It’s the warmer-” he breaks off in a laugh and Alex smiles “-the warmer weather. Didn’t get much snow either.”

“London doesn’t snow anymore, babe.” Alex pushes a quick peck to the side of his jaw and releases him so he can finally pull his phone out. “’cept for random bursts in April, according to Mark.” Miles crouches to get a close-up of the prematurely bloomed daffodils.

“Poor bastards won’t have a chance when we get that cold snap.” He takes a few more pictures and Alex wished he were quick enough to pull out his own phone to take a picture of Miles against that backdrop of spring’s coming. He takes it in quietly instead.

“Oh, you’ll like this, Al.” Miles draws his attention to a bronze plated plaque, “It’s called a _Narcissus_.” He takes a picture of it and Alex processes the new information as he takes in the collection of flowers.

“Really?”

“M’not joking!” Miles glances back, eyes twinkling with mirth that Alex feels reflected by the lightness in his chest. He crouches down next to Miles, and almost jumps up again at the bee he sees tumbling off a petal.

“ _Fucking_ -”

Miles laughs. “He’s just doing his thing. Look, that’s the full name.” He points at the plaque and Alex compartmentalises _bee_ enough to read what got Miles so tickled.

“ _Narcissus pseudonarcissus._ Well, ain’t that an oxymoron.” He smirks, and continues, “Part of the _amaryllis_ family _amaryllida-_ fuck me _,_ amarylli-da-ca-ee _._ ” With a sigh he pulls off his sunglasses and squints at the engraved text, ignoring Miles’ amused look. “Symbolises new life-isn’t that nice, Mi? And resilience.” He snorts, and Miles finishes for him with “God help ‘em with the resilience.”

Alex touches the stem of the flower closest to him, trailing his fingers up to prod at the delicate petals, or maybe not so delicate, in flower terms. “Amaryllis.” He feels how it sounds on his tongue, and then Miles straightens up, knees cracking a little as he scratches at his stubbly jaw and just says, “Good ol’ Amelie. Sounds French now, don’t it?”

Alex studies the curl of the blossoms. “There’s a French word for it too apparently.” He turns to Miles briefly and then reads out the last words on the plaque, “a ‘ _Jonquille’_ or however they pronounce that.”

“Ooh, a John Keel.” Miles starts again, and Alex accepts the hand that pulls him up with, thankfully, minimal knee cracking.

“S’funny name though. Sounds like summat you’d hear-”

“On a billboard,” Miles says over Alex’s, “on Radio 6 Music.”

Miles gives him a knowing look, and Alex prepares himself for a spin that sends him careening into Miles’ side. “Our baby gonna be on 6 Music, then?” Miles breathes into his ear, tickly and warm and Alex leans away from it with a grin.

“It’ll be…on the adverts during the break.” He gets a thoughtful hum at the suggestion.

“Not Radio 4 then?” Miles noses at his neck and Alex cranes his head back, refusing to reward the behaviour by laughing. “We could do it, piano and sax. It’ll be our jazzy reinvention. The Birth of the Rock and Roll.”

Alex makes a noise like he’s considering it, then puts on a stricken face. “But then we wouldn’t qualify for Smooth Jazz’s tea-time playlist!”

“Fuck it, we’ll invent a new genre.” Miles is talking into his neck now, and Alex holds onto his covered head so they don’t accidentally trip into the flower bed. “The Ex-Genre.” He hears Miles announce, and the words pour out of him in a rush.

“The genre of the deceased.”

“The genre of the damned.”

“The _send help they’ve gone off the cliff_ genre.” 

They stumble back, finally laughing, and Alex forgets about any bees when they barely manage to catch themselves from falling into the daffodils.

_  
Floating somewhere between the four and the six.  
Silent societies.  
Exotic buildings stretching to the sky,  
reaching out for a curious hand._

Later, when they’re warming up at home, Alex sits at the piano, fucking around with diminished seventh chords. When he finds a sound he likes he lingers on it, moving around the key of F sharp minor. It’s an atmospheric blend, and he feels himself humming to non-existent words, but then they become a question.

“ _Tu t’appelle comment_?” He plays the notes separately, then lets them ring out together in a chord.

He doesn’t jump, just settles into that familiar humming orbit when Miles comes up from behind, a light hand on the small of his back. Alex leans back into it and adds his little finger to a different chord variation that sounds promising.

“Amerlie.”

Miles whispers it into his ear, nuzzling down to his hair and Alex memorises where exactly each finger is because with that word something slots into place. He goes back to the first chord, and his beating heart is a metronome to this _thing_ and he doesn’t want to lose it, although he already knows it’s been seared into his brain.

He plays the notes.

“Amerlie _comment?_ ”

Miles smiles, he can feel it. Can feel his own.

“ _Amerlie Jonquille_.”

**7: Gardener**

The thing with relationships is that Alex usually has no idea what he’s doing.

Often, he thinks back to what his parents’ relationship was like growing up. They never made a fuss about Valentines, not like how they do in the States. He remembers them taking him to a friend’s house for one of their anniversaries once, the wink his father gave him through the car mirror as they talked about a reservation. It seemed like it was easy for them, through child eyes at least.

The details of their romantic relationship were always kind of a mystery to him, and 12-year-old Alex would be kissing the floor in thanks before, but it’d be helpful to have some advice now.

He’d tried his hand at romance before, drawn in like a rat to the piper’s sweet melody. Being in love was a gift. Alex just didn’t know how to make it last.

He has a little idea now, at 34, with the world going by so fast, how to approach this new direction they’d taken themselves. Love can’t just be a passive reflection of a dream, not something one can simply sit amongst, content to be swept away in. He’s not that naïve to believe that’s all you do. That you just have to take a little interest in what the other person is doing, remember important dates and shower them with love and affection.

Of course, that’s what he did in past relationships, but there’s a difference between short-term relationships and actual, fucking, real commitment. There’s no getting around the fact that commitment requires change.

If Miles suddenly decided to pursue a career in agriculture Alex would _surf the internet_ for the best textbooks in the basics of environmental science. If Miles wanted to become a body builder Alex would be hitting the gym the next day. If he up and decided to quit smoking, even. Alex would savour his last cig in private, maybe shed a manly tear, but he’d find a healthier alternative.

Roles work when they’re supportive, working symbiotically with each other, tending to the shared garden of their relationship…he loses his train of thought to that.

Anyway, that’s the best he’s got on love.

“You’ve got that look on your face.”

Alex immediately scrunches his face up, but then relaxes it indulgently to smile up at Miles as he passes the settee. “Is it glaringly obvious?” he drawls, nuzzling into the hand that graces his cheek.

“Could hear it from upstairs.”

Alex smirks. “Ever the flatterer.” He stretches out his limbs, obnoxiously loud in the groan he releases. Miles quips out a faint, “Beautiful” as he makes into the kitchen. There’s some banging around, a hollering _‘Kettle’s on!’_ to which Alex shouts something nonsensical back.

He’s been obsessing over the couple of chords they’d been playing with. A rough demo had been recorded in his bedroom a few days ago, plus a video recording of his fingers taken by Miles in case the unthinkable happened and he forgot.

Fail-safe in place, he’d been thinking about what percussive instruments could be layered over it when his thoughts took a turn to the philosophical side. He blames it on the gas fireplace he’s been sitting in front of. The ever-crackling orange licks of fire had him staring down at it, taken to the far side of his pondering mind. His moleskin had fallen somewhere so he lifts his hips up, hand searching blindly at the space.

Miles comes back in when he feels it, wedged down the bloody seat, and skitters around to drop down next to Alex. He pulls his legs over his lap, hand settling over his thighs.

“Al, I’m gonna be a chef.”

The words take a second to process. When they do Alex feels his eyebrows rise steadily, eyes widening as he takes in Miles’ face, open and expectant for him to say something. He puts the moleskin down and licks his lips.

“Okay, like,” he gestures vaguely with his hand, “immediately? Or is there a course you’re…gonna…what?”

Miles is staring at him like he’d started speaking Japanese. He seems to snap out of it with a blink, “Baby…” he starts, then suddenly he’s smiling. He slides Alex’s thighs off his lap and scoots up on the settee where he takes Alex’s confused face into his hands. He has that terribly fond look, and Alex realises he’s completely misinterpreted this conversation when Miles guides him to a kiss.

“You’re amazing.”

Alex licks his lips, watching Miles’ eyes drop to them and up again. “You’re not studying to become a chef.”

Miles shakes his head. He pulls slightly on Alex’s ears, smirking when he wrinkles his nose. “No babe, but I’m touched that you took it so seriously, Al-” he breaks off with a laugh when Alex attempts to headbutt him but just ends up causing their noses to mash harmlessly.

Miles uses his strop to land another kiss, but it takes a gentle hand and a gentle touch to Alex’s jaw to coax his sulky lips open. Miles captures his bottom lip softly, then smiles against them. “Love that you were open to it, always ready to support me, aren’t ya love?”

Alex mutters into the next kiss, “You know I would, Mi.” The initial embarrassment is fading now, and he shakes his head, smiling at himself. “So this house ain’t gonna be blessed with a Chef Kane anytime soon?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ye?” Miles quirks a brow at him to which Alex just brings his legs up to trap Miles in his lap, smirking. “Unofficially a Chef Kane.” Miles gives him a look and Alex blinks, trying to remember-remembering something-

“Oh, that promo you did with Tom?”

“Got it in one.” He’s rewarded with another kiss, and this one he bends Miles further into, enjoying his squeak. “Need to, practice what he sent me, oi, Alex.” He breaks off again as Alex bites at his lip. “Recipes.”

Alex stops chasing him, hands slipping down to his slim waist. “You’re gonna do them now?”

“Well, I don’t wanna look lik’a daisy when he needs me to dice a potato or summat.” Miles chews on his lip, but he narrows his eyes at Alex’s face. “What?”

Alex schools his expression, probably a beat too late. Smiling innocently, he shakes his head. “Nothin’. Your crush is cute.”

Miles laughs, but doesn’t deny it. “He’s a handsome man.”

“And a fucking good cook I’ve heard. What’re we making?” He rolls them off the settee and Miles moves into the kitchen with Alex following.

“Scotch Eggs. The instruction was straight, so I’m gonna try that. Looked fucking boss last time.” He starts opening cupboards, rummaging through for ingredients. When he turns around he’s got two large roasting potatoes in each hand, showing a casual disregard for what a normal person could hold comfortably.

Alex moves towards the laptop he’s got sitting on the counter island, reading through the list up on the screen. He rolls his eyes at Miles after his quick scan and plucks two potatoes out of his hand. “Right, we don’t need that many potatoes.”

Their attempt is ambitious, and the process takes longer than it ought to, but they manage to ruin the kitchen in under two hours and end up with a collapsed ball with leaking yolk an hour later. It’s not quite what they were going for, but they belted some tunes during it and Alex humbly thinks he wore that apron better than Tom Fucking Brown ever could.

_Can you smell the scent in the air?  
It clings to the nostrils,  
working smoothly in,  
but in a way you kinda don’t want it to leave.  
  
_

**8: Fizzler**

Sometimes it happens at the most peculiar of times.

Joe Cockers’ ‘ _With A little Help From My Friends’_ is playing, because Alex’s sense of humour is endless _and_ puntiful, but the only thing he can hear now is his own breath, ragged-thin into Miles’ neck as hips drive him into the bed.

It comes when Miles threads his hands into his hair, pulling hard so his head falls back on the pillow. Alex slides his hand down his sweat-slick back, thighs tense against his rocking waist and can’t contain the laugh that bubbles forth from his lips.

Miles drags his mouth over his chest, and he slows down a little so Alex can get his breath back. “What, baby?”

Alex pants at the ceiling, eyes cracking open to see the shadows they make from the rose-scented candle on the dresser. Miles thrusts in slowly and he keens, mind temporarily cutting out at the fizzles of pleasure that burst and radiate through his body. He feels the prickly rub of stubble against his cheek and opens his closed eyes to the slope of Miles’ nose as it slides down to nuzzle at his neck.

“I…I lost it,” Alex tells him, voice thin with mostly air. He’d used it up in the serenade it took to take Miles to bed that evening. Granted, it didn’t take much seducing to get all the gears going, but Alex liked to think it enhanced the experience somewhat.

Miles manhandles his leg further up, hand curling over his thigh and Alex arches his back with a sharp moan as it takes him deeper. “Lost your train of thought, love?”

Alex nods, rocking his hips up with Miles, falling into his rhythm like it’s an instinct. It was perfect for the book of rambles, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the words. Or was it a feeling?

He couldn’t even try to trace back because a sharp pain at his neck brings him back to focus. Miles soothes the inflamed skin with his tongue and he captures Alex’s mouth again in a breathless tangle of lips that they surge into with the energy of colliding planets. It’s the only one he wants to visit, maybe even lay down some roots, start a colony, or a fucking hotel-

A harder drive of his hips has Alex gasping against his mouth, raking his nails down the ridges of his spine. He’d always liked it like this, when he could savour each dragging feeling of Miles around him, inside him, and his hips jolt upwards not just at the pleasure but at the words that were briefly lost in the brambles.

“Re-remembered them.”

Miles laugh is a warm breath against his neck, nosing at the damp necklace on his skin. He stills, which has Alex bucking underneath his weight, but he loosens his grip of Alex’s hair to rake his fingers through the sweaty strands. Alex leans into it and Miles scratches at it briefly then tilts his face upwards by his chin.

“Love the way your mind works, darling.” He dips his head down and trails soft lips over his eyelids. “It’s the eighth wonder of the world.” Alex’s eyes flutter open and he tilts his chin up to welcome the slow kiss that Miles gives him. “So I need you to hold onto them for now,” he says as their lips part. Alex watches him with love-drowsed eyes, “wanna hear them later, yeah?” He starts to move again, and Alex can’t think of the right words to string together because his mouth goes slack at the sudden, hard thrust that makes him clench down with a sharp hiss.

Miles’ own pleasure is evident by the tension in his voice as he says, “But right now, you’re going to sing for me again, aren’t you Al?” He rolls his hips and Alex throws a hand up to grasp at his neck, letting out a strangled noise that Miles melts at, obviously loves. “Sweetheart,” he rumbles, nosing over where he’s kissed the skin reddened raw, and Alex holds onto the words as desperately as he can but he’s an exposed nerve and Miles is an open wire searing electricity over his entire being.

He hasn’t got the breath to laugh when he loses them.

Miles picks up the pace and Alex responds eagerly, giving him the control of the dance. He has thoughts about exploding stardust, of a hot Spring night’s air, which might be related to his past thoughts, but it gets lost in the fizzle just like the rest.

He holds on, hand tight over the back of his neck as the other twists into the sheets with prickling eyes. The scent of roses and Miles around him curls into his nostrils and permeates through him in a different kind of heady bliss.

He’d sang before, but he supposes he’s got room left for another number.

**9: Melter**

“Remember this one?” Miles asks, voice dropping in a yawn. The staccato strings of John Cale’s ‘ _Paris 1919’_ are chirpy and meant more for a head bopping tune, but it’s on as they sprawl out on the bed in a tangle of limbs. Alex is on his back, blinking drowsily at the shadows on the ceiling in the crook of Miles’ shoulder. His arm is draped over Alex’s neck, loosely resting across him where Alex holds onto it, absently rubbing his fingertips over the calluses.

He noses at the skin of his arm. “Yeah.”

Miles tightens it. “What does it remind you of?”

Alex smiles. “Paris,” his nose is cold, so he rubs against it again, “in the…Summer of 1919. Them were good years.”

Miles laughs quietly, hand moving to tuck under his head. “I remember you in that _boulangerie_. You had the song stuck in ya head, and jus’ started singing it. Wanted that lad to join in too. You were proper convinced he knew what ye were singing about, waving your arms all crazy like- _hey, ok_ \- Bloody-could’ve just used your words.”

Alex removes his teeth from the clamp he had over Miles’ arm. “Not as effective, Miles,” he says simply, mouth fighting back a smile he knows Miles can’t see but can probably hear. “We don’t talk about me bad dreams.”

“Right torture isn’t it?” Miles drawls theatrically, and it makes them snicker again as John Cale tells them how on _Fridays she’d be there, but on Mondays not at all…_

“I don’t think I stepped into that boulangerie ever again.”

“Yeah, you avoided that for a while. The bread was bloody good though, wonder if it’s still there.” He yawns over the last few words and it sends Alex off on his own.

“It’s probably a Starbucks now. _You’re a ghost la-la-la…”_ He hums along, making Miles’ fingers wiggle in his hand.

“Or a Pret A Manger.” He gets an unimpressed noise at that. They listen to the song in silence for a bit, and Alex can’t know for sure what Miles is thinking, but for him it’s stirring up the old colours of nostalgia. Of way too many baguettes in the Summer sun, staying up till the early hours in each other’s rooms. Of being wired on Malibu, pineapple juice and Fanta orange, dramatically performing Scott Walker’s _Amsterdam_ amongst giggling hiccups. To be young, fresh in one’s twenties again. 

John Cale repeats the chorus and Alex appreciates the musical choice. It’s a similar feeling to watching dough being kneaded-satisfactory to the mind. “Love a good canon melody.”

Miles splays his hand out in the grasp Alex has them in, pinching at the odd finger. “We’ll give her one,” he hums, and he doesn’t need to clarify on the reference because she has a name now and it brings Alex a quiet sense of calm that he melts into with the chirpy _la’s_ of Paris 1919.

“It finishes too soon.”

Miles doesn’t hesitate, “We’ll record a fifteen-minute track. The last five can be you just crooning her name.”

“ _Oh_ _Amerlie…_ ” he sings in the style of Mr Cale. “And then a seventeen-minute one with you just pulling words from the aether to hype us all up with.”

Miles likes the sound of that because he laughs, arm squeezing a little over Alex’s shoulder. “Give me a good baseline and I’ll rock your toes off, baby.”

Alex smirks, craning his head around to eye him, seeing the challenge there. “I’ll give you more than two.”

There’s a moment between them when the glances turn suggestive, but it’s not just their limbs which are exhausted, so it turns into a promise. _Later_ it reads, when Alex shuffles backwards, arse in the side of Miles’ hip. Miles slides his thigh further in between the gap of Alex’s legs and keeps him close.

Alex takes the hand he’s been playing with to his mouth, lips light over his bony knuckles. He’s comfortable. Miles’ body chases away the chill of the night, the candle is half liquid and the words come easy as breathing into the bumps he runs his mouth over as he says,

“My love was always standing next to you.”

It feels nice to get it out there, to hear it in his own ears amongst the red tinted ambience of the bedroom, but he feels the lax body around him tense. He startles, twisting around to look at Miles. It’s a distinct, melting feeling, the sensation as every hard bone in his body turns soft at the telling sheen in Miles’ eyes.

“Mi?” Alex murmurs, watching as awe and affection knead into his already dough-like body, hitting hard quite effectively at those misty eyes. Before he can take his face into his hands the way he immediately wants to he gets pulled into a squeezing hug. Miles’ reaction wasn’t one he’d been expecting, hoping maybe, but it’s all the more sweet when he hears that wet laugh.

“You just come out and say these things, Al.”

A kiss presses into his neck, and Alex slides his hands to press against the back of his neck, admiring the picture he makes against the black satin pillow. Paris 1919 has ended, and the quiet bass guitar of Serge Gainsburg’s _Melody_ slowly builds in the silence.

“You’re such a sap,” Miles says when he loosens the hug, and Alex leans in to take his lips again.

“I love you,” he says, watching his face, and he smiles when he sees the gift of the reaction it ensues. Alex knows he’ll be watering the garden of these gifts for a long while, just so he can see that look on Miles’ face every day.

Serge Gainsburg croons into the bedroom, and Miles listens with an unflappable grin, hand trailing up and over the curve of Alex’s spine and buttocks. It’s a record Alex was sucked into years ago, and he suspects Miles probably knows every track by now.

“I wanna hear you in a song like that Al. Just your voice, right up into the mic.”

The strings swell and release and Alex smirks, crawling forward to accentuate his words into the curve of Miles’ ear. “Just like this?” he says slowly, tonguing the flicks of the consonants, smiling when Miles twitches his head away. Alex chases it with his nose, blowing air onto it and laughs outright when Miles obviously regrets his suggestion and squirms away.

“Eh, maybe not.”

Alex folds his arms around his neck and gets his mouth as close as he can to say through giggles, “ _Le monde entier est un cactus, Miles Kane_ , _il est impossible de s’asseoir. Comment t’appelle, mon cactus?_ ”

Miles squeaks when he licks a wet stripe from ear lobe to bridge and manages to wedge a hand over Alex’s mouth. “Al, fucking ‘ell.” He cranes his neck awkwardly to wipe away the wetness on the pillow. Alex laughs and stops his assault, relaxing back against him. He feels a little sweaty, but he doesn’t slip his leg out, preferring to bathe in the heat a little longer. It doesn’t make him miss L.A. Not when Miles is right here.

The track continues, the eccentric mix taking Alex back all over again. It’s completely in French, and he’d given up on trying to learn the words. He enjoys the storytelling and recites the English line ‘ _Spirit of ecstasy’_ as a whisper into the skin of Miles’ shoulder.

Miles smooths a hand through his hair, and it’s one of those things that even Alex couldn’t predict, when there’s a lull in the music and Miles says out of nowhere:

"D'ya think animals can recognise music? Like, you know, if they listen to summat catchy, reckon they hum it to themselves?"

Alex is quiet for a second, and then he lifts his head to look at Miles’ thoughtful face. He reaches over him for the moleskin on the side table and can’t contain the laugh that bubbles forth.

“I fucking love you.”

_It was a hard hitter. The warbling of that summer’s song.  
Only the birds could sing it, sounds like a John Keel melody.  
It’s a pity, you should have seen it._

**10: Reinventor**

None could touch him.

Up on stage, the sparkly backdrop of _Monkeys_ glows behind him as he bends over the guitar with the _505_ riff falling effortlessly from his fingers.

Alex remembers it like it was yesterday.

Up on stage, that’s where the train boarded, playing to the crowd by whipping them into his path and Alex lived for it. He was still the same, a master at his craft, and probably even more comfortable now than before, if not just for the passage of time.

If they were doing it anymore, he would kiss him, would yank him down by the white collar of his jumpsuit and lay claim to his mouth. Miles makes it so easy to break the rules, especially when he leans into his space and whispers tickly into his ear:

“You were fucking mega, Al.”

It’s a feeling he feels high on. Even after the train leaves the station and the encore finishes, Glasgow a sea of shimmering lights and bodies, he feels part of it. That’s what he is too, just another star in the pulsing mass of the universe.

He knew Miles would be there when they walk off stage, charming the crew and buzzing off his own energy. He’s sweaty in places he’d never thought he’d be, so he keeps the greetings to hand slaps, fist bumps for the guys that give them a nod of approval and brief cheek pecks to the ladies that had helped them out. There are no backstage fans for this event so he can go straight to the dressing room for a shower. But before he can move in that direction arms wrap him up, lifting him right off his feet.

“That was fucking sick!”

Miles is definitely buzzing, almost thrumming from it. Alex returns the hug with his own squeeze, flicking wet strands of his hair back and ignoring the dampness of his clothes sticking to him. “It were like old times, ey?”

“Now you’re talking like an old man. Thirty-two isn’t-”

“Maybe I feel it,” Alex grumbles, putting it on a bit because Miles makes him a bloody infant sometimes. They pull away, but in the sense that Alex keeps an arm hooked over his neck and Miles darts in for a kiss on the cheek.

Life is a cycle, he thinks. A rebirth, or a reimagining of the passing days. They only mean something when you grab it at, make something of it, and if you’re lucky, to get exposed to the chance of new beginnings every day. He kinda wants to hang onto this one, but he also knows it’s because there’s this force greater than gravity he’s a forever passenger to, nothing more but a lone flower moving towards the sun.

He catches himself later on, when the night swirls into pulsing lights and moving bodies, sticky with spilt beer and sweet with the smell of WKD as he weaves through the sea of people towards that _laugh_ he can’t help but smile at, anticipation settling through his veins-

He breaks. With a spin of his foot he just turns around and leaves the floor, bumping into people he isn’t in the polite state of mind to apologise to.

His heart is a raw meat in his chest. It bursts and flutters with the potent thumps of the club music vibrating through the walls.

‘Staff Only’ passes by him and soon enough he’s back in his spot, muted slightly from the rest of the building. Here he sees familiar dark eyes. Brown like the soils of the Earth reflecting at him. It’s almost grounding, and he wills himself to control his thrumming heart.

If you leave a garden alone, the flowers don’t just die. Exposed to the elements, they wither in the cold, scorch under a burning sun, but they come back. Different, but hardy, lucky. Resilient flowers and their insects, weathered for the next season, for all seasons to come.

_I’m a bee and it’s Winter._

“Al?” Of course Miles knows where he is.

Alex breaks his stare from the bathroom mirror and turns the tap on to wash his hands again and hurriedly fix his hair. When he walks out of the staff loo, he ignores the swoop in his stomach at the sight of Miles leaning against the wall. The shadowed magenta light catches him in such a way that Alex desperately wants to find the right words to describe it, but his tongue’s gone dry.

Miles gives him a once over, then pushes off the wall. His hair is growing out, and Alex wonders when he’ll shave it again, decides to visit his own barber soon.

“Everything’s gonna be alrigh’,” Miles says, voice low, and he presses up into Alex’s space, forehead a grounding weight against his. “Me an’ you, yeah? We’d do anything.” He’s certainly a little drunk. The words are a little abstract, but that’s okay, because abstract is Alex’s second language. “In my imagination.” His head rolls against his and he smiles like he’d just recited a cute poem and Alex _wants._

Yeah, he’s fucked.

The beginning notes of The Strokes’ _Barely Legal_ send a rousing cheer through the hall and the lights pulse with the change of tempo.

Miles jolts, and it sends an electricity through Alex that he takes by kissing those flushed cheeks, because he can’t _not,_ and tilting his nose up to nuzzle against his scratchy face. He can blur some lines tonight, just for tonight.

_I’ve got some secrets that’ll make you stay._

“The things we do, Miles.” It’s hushed, and he doubts he can hear him with the fucking noise everywhere. The bass that vibrates the wall. _I want it all_. “Baby, you’re a fucking diamond.”

Miles smiles slowly against him; Alex can feel it. He lifts his head gently and takes his hand. “Dance with me?”

Alex does.

And when they’re hanging off each other in the sea of people, goofing about on the dance floor before the DJ mixes in a new song, he accepts his feelings.

The garden was never going to fade away, and he’s okay with that. He can live with that.

Miles bounces around, holding up a half empty cup of what smells like cherry brandy and ginger and Alex laughs at the giddiness that bursts forth, holding on tightly. They twirl around and holler out lyrics he half-remembers, and he doesn’t need to describe the feeling just yet. Just being amongst it all is enough, the interesting words can come after.

And when the DJ puts on _that_ Oasis song afterwards the cheer around them is so loud it almost deafens him. He cheers along, sweaty, voice rough, slightly dizzy, and very much in _love_ _love love_ -

**Coda:**

“Need an interesting synonym.”

“For what?” Miles’ voice is muffled from where he’s rummaging about the house.

Alex thinks, eyes cutting to him, his mind swirling in galaxies of words he could twist and weave into the right feeling he wants to convey. He smirks, scribbling something down.

Miles wanders back in, leaning over the back of the settee. He barks out a laugh when he sees what Alex has written. “Not sure that’s a synonym, love.”

Alex hums, looking back at the paper and circling some words he wants to accentuate. “Is for what I want to say.”

When he looks back Miles has scrunched his face up, but he’s blushing. He’s blushing so hard Alex gets that warmth blooming in his chest again, and he’s pretty sure it’s shining on his face. “C’mere,” he tugs at the sleeve of his floral shirt, aiming for a kiss but he just gets a peck that’s pretty much a damp chin as Miles makes a distracted sound and lifts off to go back to his pre-zoom meeting stress.

“Al, have you seen my razor? The good one-ah, found it-”

Finishing off his carefully constructed stanzas are three words: _Miles -Fucking- Kane._ He closes the moleskin and puts it to the side. “Got an idea for _Amerlie_ , and it’s in F sharp minor.”

Miles skids past the room again, the wire dangling in his hands. “What was that love? I’m going deaf.”

Alex heaves himself off the settee to move in and take the plug from his hands. “Tell you upstairs. How you want it shaped?”

The gas fire continues to crackle as they move to the bathroom. Next to the fireplace is an unopened delivery box of coffee pods, which should have been moved a while ago, but beside it sits a small bronze statue of a blooming daffodil.

_Enjoy a piece of our garden,_ it reads on the base.  
  


_Decided I want you to soak me in your effervescence,  
Like the explosion of star dust, all sparkly-like._

_Ain’t it funny? How much I love ya._

“ _Love is something that needs tending to_.”

Holy Rose, Fruit Bats

~

In the hospital, after the baby is born, the nurse says, “I have to ask, what made you decide?”

A cooing baby in her arms, the woman replies, tears in her eyes, “I saw her name on a billboard: Everything You’ve Come to Expect.”

Smiling, her husband adds, “You know, the one for the brandy?”

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: lanatural-books
> 
> **Inspiration Song References:**  
>  1\. Melody by Serge Gainsburg  
> 2\. Shine On You Crazy Diamond part 1-5 by Pink Floyd  
> 3\. Tinsel Town in the Rain by The Blue Nile  
> 4\. Paris 1919 by John Cale  
> 5\. Holy Rose by Fruit Bats  
> 6\. Don’t Look Back in Anger by Oasis
> 
> **Other References:**  
>  \- “The Chippy” Fried fish and fried potato chips/frites takeaway.  
> \- _Tapetum Lucidum_ : the structure behind the eye of certain nocturnal animals which reflects light differently. When shined on in the dark it ‘glows’ back.  
> \- “Brass monkeys” Expression for cold weather.  
> \- “Radio 6” UK radio station for indie/electronic/hippie music.  
> \- “Radio 4” primarily plays classical music.  
> \- “Give ‘em a bell” Give them a phone call.  
> \- Lockdown support bubble: includes single-household adults or carers.
> 
> All may now disembark the Kane Train! Please mind the gap between…


End file.
